I feel like I just got punched in the stomach.
I shouldn’t have done it, but I did.
I read an article about a woman who was raped, and it was so graphic.
I shouldn’t have.
But I did.
And now I’m just sobbing.
I hate the people in this world who think that’s ok, who think that’s justified.
I hate that all my rapists walk free.
I hate that one is becoming a priest.
I hate that I’ve had so many flashbacks of another, flashbacks that make me think that if I had just tried a little harder that I would be ok. I fought so hard it hurt, I tried everything I could, I gave up so it wouldn’t hurt so bad, so I wouldn’t get hit. But what if he wouldn’t have hit me? What if?
I never wanted to be a fucking statistic. I never wanted to be another person whose perpetrators walk free like nothing has ever happened and meanwhile there are nights when I can’t close my eyes without seeing it and hearing it and feeling it and thinking how fucking wrong it is.
There are people in this world who think that what happened is my fault.
Like I willingly walked in and asked for it.
And I always feel that what happened to me wasn’t good enough. I can’t even count how many times I’ve been raped. I don’t even want to talk about how I’ve been raped. Thinking about it has my body shaking with tears.
But it didn’t happen to me in a dark alley, by a stranger. So it isn’t good enough. It was people I trusted, people I wanted to love me, people who I used to fill a void created so long ago.
I just feel broken. I can’t get the memories to stop replaying right now.
And it makes everything in me tense up and I stop breathing and nobody understands but other survivors, and even those I know in person seem much more well adjusted than me.
And once again I feel like it’s my fault.
I know it wasn’t, but sometimes, that’s so hard to believe.